


...'Til Sunbeams Find You

by alethiometry



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethiometry/pseuds/alethiometry
Summary: Maybe it's just a residual Catholic guilt thing, though she's not set foot in a church since her wedding day, and not since high school before that. But it’s a hard habit to shake, and the fact of the matter is, she’s never seen Gilfoyle like this before: rattled, skittish, almost terrified. She wants it to go away—wants to help make it go away, get him back to normal. Which, for Gilfoyle, is dry and sardonic at best, but she wouldn’t have him any other way.





	...'Til Sunbeams Find You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [businessboyjared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/businessboyjared/gifts).



> Title is a lyric from “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”  
> Written for the following two prompts (hope it's okay that I combined them into one!):
> 
> [businessboyjared](http://businessboyjared.tumblr.com):“gilf is very pro medical marijuana and my personal thought is that he uses it to sleep better bc he has really bad/vivid nightmares (about what, idk!) but he spends the night at monicas & bc shes more of a cigarette smoker hes gotta just try to get thru the night without smoking before bed and this either means he forces himself to stay awake all night OR monica comforts him after a nightmare…….”
> 
> anonymous: “Gilfoyle and Monica go on a picnic”
> 
> And a huge thank you to [clowncollegecolette](http://clowncollegecolette.tumblr.com) for looking this over!

Monica’s always been a bit of a light sleeper, so when Gilfoyle suddenly twitches himself awake in the middle of the night, she wakes, too. Groggily and reluctantly, perhaps, but she wakes nonetheless.

“What's up?” she murmurs.

“Just getting a glass of water,” he tells her. His voice is rough and raspy. “Be back in a second.”

She pulls the comforter tighter around herself in Gilfoyle’s absence, trying to fall back asleep. Her room is drafty even in the summer, but after sharing her bed with him for the better part of the last few months, it feels even colder than usual when he's not there beside her. She hates the cold.

She waits one minute, then two, but still doesn't hear the water running. She doesn't hear anything at all.

Gilfoyle isn't even in the kitchen when she goes to check up on him; he's hunched over on the couch in her living room, shoulders drawn in, kneading at his eyes with the heel of his palms, glasses clutched in one shaking hand.

“Hey,” she says gently, sinking down on the cushion next to his. His breathing is ragged and harsh and she wishes she'd thought to unplug her phone from where it's charging in her room, just in case she needs to call 911. “Gilfoyle, what's wrong?”

She goes to place a hand on his knee, but he recoils with a snarled “ _ Don't! _ ” that makes her jump back as well.

“Fuck.” Gilfoyle inhales sharply and then sighs, pushing his glasses back on with a little too much force. He glances at her through the corner of his eye for the briefest of moments before dropping his gaze to his knuckles, white and shaking from the tight fist they're making. He unclenches and flexes his fingers gingerly. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I—fuck. I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

“Bullshit,” Monica says softly. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Gilfoyle shakes his head and begins to laugh, slowly, quietly, and Monica thinks it might be one of the most despondent sounds she's ever heard.

“I, uh. Fuck, this is embarrassing. I have problems sleeping. Sometimes.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s. Uh. Sleep paralysis. It’s when you wake up feeling like there’s something sitting on your fucking chest so you can’t move. And it feels so fucking real. Like a bad trip.”

Monica smiles in what she hopes is an understanding way. She’s never tried anything harder than pot, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I had it under control for a while. Erlich and I used to split his stash; I’d just smoke a little at a time, every night before bed. Fuck.” Gilfoyle runs a hand over his mouth before continuing. “I didn’t bring any with me tonight; I never needed it before. When I sleep here, I mean. With you. I've been rationing what’s left of Erlich’s supply. I don't have a prescription.”

“Isn’t it only, like, forty bucks for a checkup and a card?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just been easier to buy from Erlich until now. Besides,” Gilfoyle looks up at Monica with a rueful grin, “I’ve been trying to wean myself off it. Didn't think you'd be a fan.”

“Gilfoyle, we live in Northern California,” Monica says patiently. “I used to get a second-hand high from Erlich every time I came over to your place. If this helps you in any quantifiable way, you can smoke whatever the fuck you want to around me, whenever the fuck you want.”

Gilfoyle nods. He looks marginally less jumpy now, taking a few deep breaths before looking down at his sweat-soaked shirt and declaring that he's going to take a shower—and no thank you, he doesn't want company. Just needs a little breathing room.

Monica sits on the couch for a moment, thinking. Maybe it's just a residual Catholic guilt thing, though she's not set foot in a church since her wedding day, and not since high school before that. But it’s a hard habit to shake, and the fact of the matter is, she’s never seen Gilfoyle like this before: rattled, skittish, almost terrified. She wants it to go away—wants to help make it go away, get him back to normal. Which, for Gilfoyle, is dry and sardonic at best, but she wouldn’t have him any other way.

When he's out of the shower, dressed now in the spare tank top and sweatpants that he keeps in her dresser, she's already tossed a bunch of haphazard snacks from her fridge and pantry into one of the too-many reusable shopping bags she somehow keeps accumulating, and is folding up the blanket she usually keeps draped over the back of the couch.

“If you're not gonna sleep,” she says before Gilfoyle can get a word out, “then let's at least go get some fresh air.”

He nods and lets her take his hand and lead the way.

It's not often anymore that she sneaks up to the roof of her apartment building; it’s a bit of a hassle to squeeze through the utility closet at the end of the hallway, and it's never been quite this late at night when she's gone up. But the rickety spiral staircase is still there, and the door at the top is still unlocked, and when they emerge onto the rooftop she can't help but sigh in contentment. She's always loved the feeling of being up high. It’s maybe the one thing she misses about living in big east coast cities rather than these suburbs: that feeling she gets when she’s looking out the window of a high-rise, like she’s floating over everything and everyone. Untethered. Free.

(Maybe she’ll split a joint with Gilfoyle the next time he sleeps over, she thinks. Might be nice to smoke something that isn’t cigarettes for a change.)

“I used to come up here to smoke every night,” Monica explains while she fans out the blanket and sets up their sad excuse for a picnic. She doesn't add that that was back when she'd just moved in here, newly single for the first time since fucking high school, and so, so lonely. There’s a reason she’s thrown herself so single-mindedly into advancing her career these past several years. “I've cut back a lot since then, but the view’s still nice.”

“I do love a light-polluted night sky,” Gilfoyle says dryly, sitting down next to her and cracking open one of the fancy bottles of coconut water that Monica had stolen from the Pied Piper office. She doesn't even like the stuff, but she distinctly remembers Erlich saying it was the most expensive brand; if she's going to freeload, she may as well get the most bang for her (unspent) buck. Anyway, it doesn't seem like a good idea to booze Gilfoyle up right now, so overpriced coconut water it is.

Monica surveys the snack selection she's strewn unceremoniously around them. There's a half-eaten jumbo bag of tortilla chips, a packet of sliced deli turkey, pre-packaged carrot sticks with hummus, three apples, and some wine-colored gummy bears encased in a clear plastic box with a ribbon on it that she vaguely remembers snagging from some fancy networking meet-and-greet a few weeks back.

She can't help herself; she starts to laugh and finds that she can't stop. They look like a pair of health-conscious stoners—the kind that you could probably only find out here in Silicon fucking Valley. God, they’re such cliches.

“You've gone insane,” Gilfoyle says, half a smile tugging at his lips. “Welcome to the club, I guess. Ugh,” he takes a small sip of his coconut water and wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Why do people drink this shit?”

“Because it's free,” Monica replies, taking a swig from her own bottle. “Oh, ew. This wasn't worth the effort of stealing it from the office.”

“And what effort did you put into that?” Gilfoyle asks, and Monica is glad to see he's rolling his eyes dramatically. He's back to normal, then. “It's not exactly difficult; no one’s checking your bag at the door like the fucking TSA. I could walk out of the office with the coffee maker and no one would stop me.”

“Like Hell you could,” Monica retorts. “I bet I can steal it before you can.”

Gilfoyle turns to her then, his eyes alight with amusement. “Do you really want to challenge me, Monica?” he practically growls.

“Fuck yeah, I do.” Monica smirks, then pulls him in for a kiss.

She scratches gently at his beard before sliding her hand up and tugging at his still-damp hair, the way she knows he likes. Gilfoyle’s breath hitches, his lips parting to deepen the kiss as he slides a cool hand up her bare thigh, toying with the waistband of her shorts. Monica takes the cue and moves to straddle his hips, settling her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer—and that’s when he flinches violently and pushes her away with a bitten-off curse.

“Shit,” she says, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole as she scrambles to roll off him and give him space to breathe, “shit, Gilfoyle, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Hey,” she places a tentative hand on his arm, and is relieved when he doesn’t recoil from her touch this time. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Gilfoyle sighs, looking down at his hands. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I-It’s not you, I swear, it’s just—”

“I know. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Monica rolls an apple between her palms, then sets it back down. “Do you want to go back inside and try to sleep?”

Gilfoyle shrugs. “Not really in the mood,” he says quietly. “I'll be fine. I usually just put on headphones and play video games until I pass out. Made it through Bioshock: Infinite in two sittings that way. But, uh—” he picks up the box of gummy bears and squints at it quizzically. “This is very nice, too. I mean it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Monica reaches for a slice of turkey, tearing it into little pieces and laying them on the tortilla chips like an arrangement of bizarre open-faced sandwiches. “Hey—next time you plan on staying the night, bring your gaming laptop. If this happens again, you can show me Bioshock.”

Gilfoyle smiles. “I’d like that.” He reaches for her hand and laces their fingers together. A light breeze picks up, ruffling his hair.

“Hey, Gilfoyle?” Monica says.

“Yeah.”

Monica crunches down on one of her turkey-and-tortilla-chip constructions. The chips are the slightest bit stale, but she doesn’t really mind. “Completely hypothetically—if you were going to steal the coffee maker from the office kitchen, how would you do it?”


End file.
